William Weber - Turning the Tide

“I didn’t think we were looking for bloodthirsty killers, Colonel,” Devon said.

“Homicidal maniacs, no. Someone who won’t hesitate to pull a trigger, yes.” Even speaking the words, John couldn’t help thinking of his own issues with taking a life. It was never something to be relished. Probably every major religion in the world condemned killing and yet it was an inescapable reality on the battlefield. The him-or-me mentality one experienced while firing a machine gun at attacking troops was one thing. It was either kill or be killed. But when there was a choice involved, that was another beast altogether. One that still haunted John’s dreams.

Once the selection process had been completed, John had been left with fifteen men, including Moss, Devon and Reese. John himself would be number sixteen. While the selection process had been painless, his conversation with General Brooks asking for their temporary release had been far more difficult. Brooks had wanted to be briefed on the mission they were about to undertake and John had deflected his attempts with all the grace of a punch-drunk boxer. In the end, only a reluctant promise that the general would be fed into the loop as soon as they returned made Brooks finally relent.

With that behind them, the newly formed special forces unit met once again at their new headquarters.

“We’ll be heading out in two teams,” John explained. A table had been brought in and the map from the wall laid over it. “The first team will be only four men—Taylor, Phillips, Jackson and Campbell. Two of you have explosives training, the rest are on fire support. Your mission will be to lay IEDs along the stretch of Interstate 40 between Nashville and Knoxville. According to our sources, it’s become one of the main Chinese arteries for supplies coming from the west.”

Heller, another explosives expert, looked uncomfortable. “So you want us to become glorified Iraqi insurgents? We were fighting those guys overseas.”

“Every bullet and grenade, every loaf of bread and ball bearing that reaches the front represents more American soldiers killed.”

“I get that, sir,” Heller replied. “I’m just saying it feels weird to be on the other side of things now, is all. I wish we could hit them head-on like we’ve always done before.”

“You’re right,” John admitted. “America’s talent has usually been to charge our enemies head-on and tear them apart if they ever dared to stand up to us. But that wasn’t always the case. Have you ever heard of the Minutemen?”

Heller suddenly didn’t look so sure of himself. “I think so. Didn’t they fight during the Revolution?”

“That’s right. They were sharpshooters from Kentucky, known for their long rifled muskets and the deadly accuracy with which they used them. Their specialty was picking off British officers in order to sow fear and confusion amongst the Redcoats. I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to hear the British hated this tactic—they called it ungentlemanly conduct on the battlefield. Maybe the Kentuckians wondered themselves if they were breaking some sacred code. But guess what, it worked, and if I need to adopt the tactics and strategies of our enemies in Iraq to save our country, then I’ll do it without batting an eye.”

Heller grew quiet.

“We’re about to become guerrillas, folks. And not the hairy kind.” John looked at Moss, anticipating some lame joke that never came. “I know that’s what you were thinking, don’t lie. Guerrilla is Spanish for ‘little war’, a term coined for the small bands of men who stood up to resist Napoleon’s invasion of Spain. But this isn’t about the past, gentlemen. This is about the future. The four of you will set off as soon as this meeting is done, work your way on horseback down to I-40 and destroy as many convoys as you can.”

Another hand went up. Specialist Santos. “But won’t the Chinese start to redirect troops to protect the roads and stop us?”

“We pray they do. Every unit pulled off the front lines brings us a little closer to our objective.” John turned back to the map. “The rest of us, twelve altogether, will make our way to Paragould, Arkansas. With most of their transport trucks useless, the Chinese have been conducting a desperate search for older vehicles. Our mission will be to hit that depot and destroy as many of those vehicles as we can.”

Reese was leaning over John’s shoulder when his finger plopped near a map marker indicating the depot. “That’s less than ten miles from the Jonesboro concentration camp,” he said, surprised.

John’s eyes glazed over for a moment with the thought of his boys and the suffering they were surely experiencing. “I know it is,” he replied, choking down the agony that was bound to come from being so close and yet so terribly far.

“If you’re putting yourself in harm’s way,” Diane told John as she closed the notebook before her, “it’s better you don’t tell me anymore.”

They were back at their residence. John had come by to tell her he was leaving for a little bit.

“I think you’re right,” he agreed. “These days we can’t be too careful.” He glanced down at her notebook. “How are the greenhouse repairs coming along?”

She nodded. “Fine.”

“Tell Ray I expect those windmills to be up and running by the time we get back.”

“I’ll pass the message along, but you know what he’s gonna say.”

“‘Those Chinese really banged us up good.’ Yeah, he’ll make a joke out of it, the way he makes a joke out of everything. Just pass the message along and I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

John hugged her and turned to leave. He stopped, certain Diane was about to say something.

“I’m making a list of suspects,” she finally admitted.

John pursed his lips, still staring down the hallway. “You know how I feel about that.”

“You’re only trying to protect me, I know,” Diane said. “But I may have an idea on how to catch Phoenix.”

“Just promise me you won’t do anything rash. Remember what happed with The Chairman. You nearly got yourself killed.”

She agreed and John hoped she wasn’t simply telling him what he wanted to hear.

He left the mayor’s office and made his way to the town newspaper. Inside on the main floor were a man and two teenaged girls. Each of them was using giant paper guillotines to cut out leaflets. The drop over Jonesboro concentration camp had been a huge success and they were already planning drops on other camps behind enemy lines. The teenagers pointed John downstairs, where he found Emma, a thin layer of perspiration on her brow and arms as she cranked the printing press lever.

“That’s tough work,” he commented with surprise.

His presence startled her and she gasped. Her expression shifted when she saw he was wearing his tactical gear.

“Don’t ask,” he told her. “Your mother and I have already been over it.”

“Once I’m done with this batch, we’re going to need some more paper,” she said.

John nodded. “Speak with Ray. He’ll get you what you need. You’ve been working hard, Emma. Maybe it’s time you take a break.”

She grabbed the lever and began cranking it. “When I’m done here, I gotta go home and feed George.” She was referring to the goose he and Brandon had captured over by Stanley Lake. The cantankerous little guy had survived the battle huddled next to Emma down in the sewers. Since then George had been working up quite an appetite. “I owe it to Brandon until he gets back,” she said.

John found himself in the middle of one of those dreaded moments every parent went through—the moment where you could either give your child a dose of reality, in this case that Brandon might never be coming home, or you could smile and tell them what a great job they were doing. After all, every bead of Emma’s sweat was a testament to her dedication to fanning the flames of other people’s hope. Who was he to snuff that out?